Inheritance
by xoxcrescentmoonxox
Summary: As Narcissa Malfoy lays dying, she presses a packet of letters into Draco's hands - all unsent, all to her estranged sister Andromeda. Their bitter, heartfelt words force him to confront a relationship he never acknowledged and remember a Black past.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

* * *

"These are for you," gasped Narcissa, pulling a thick, calligraphied envelope, yellowed with age, from behind her pillow. "Take them, Draco. They're your inheritance."

Draco took the envelope and reached out to clasp his mother's hand tightly in his own. She was dying, sure as her side had lost the war fifty years ago. It wasn't like it was unexpected. She'd lived through over a century of change, from participating in the Pureblood dominated society of the Dark Lord's reign to struggling through the reform since. Her own child had grown, and now Draco had had a child of his own who in turn had his own children. Narcissa had great grandchildren, three of them. Three beautiful little girls, ages six, five, and two. Yet with her sister Bellatrix long dead and her husband three months cold in the ground, Narcissa seemed to have resigned herself to having more to live for in the realm of the dead than here. It was a fast decline; one day she was as vain and fussy as always; the next she had withered away to nothing.

"Do you want me to send for a healer, Mum?" he asked softly, squeezing her hand despite her cold rings digging into his palm. "Perhaps call Astoria, Scorpius, and the girls in …?" He left the question hanging, not wanting to say "for their final goodbye."

"No," said Narcissa. "_No_. Only you, Draco." The hand that he wasn't holding crept across the bedspread to rest on the packet she had just handed to him. She ran a wizened finger, adorned with a large silver ring, across the clasp. "The past is catching up to me. They say when you die your life flashes before your eyes, but if that were true, I would see more than … than …" And now it was her turn to trail off.

"Then what, Mum?"

"Only the past," she said, after a long pause. She closed her eyes wearily, fingers curling tighter across the surface of the envelope. For several minutes she lay, chest heaving as she labored to catch her breath. Draco watched as if in another body, unfeeling, or trying not to, as his mother's life trickled from her before his eyes.

Narcissa's eyes flew open. "Tell them, Draco!" she cried. "Tell them I'm sorry I never said goodbye."

"Who?" he said gently, running his thumb down the length of her hand. "Astoria? Scorpius?"

"No, no …" She fought to catch her breath, to force a last thought into the world. "Sisters …" she managed.

"Calypso, Callidora, and Halcyon?" Draco spoke of his granddaughters almost absently, unable to think anymore. He wasn't observing this scene; he was now all too much a part of it. This was his mother he was watching fade away, his last link to a nearly forgotten family.

Narcissa clutched Draco's wrist, clawing desperately. "Tell them," she insisted, scrabbling to give him a conclusion he couldn't come to.

"I love you," he choked, taking both her hands in his now. "Don't leave me."

"Love … you," she insisted. And then, to someone who was not Draco, who was not present in life beside her, "Wait!"

Her final word punched through the last tie she held to living. With a small shudder, Narcissa Black-Malfoy slumped over on the pillow, fingers loosening around Draco's wrist, and died. Draco slowly peeled away from her, holding onto her love and expelling from him the frantic "Wait!", the desperation in her voice as she told him about the people she hadn't said goodbye to. He didn't understand her, and as his gaze slid to the ancient looking envelope resting near his mother's body, it occurred to him that maybe he never had.

* * *

He waited a few days to look inside the envelope, taking it home and hiding it with his sorrow in the liquor cabinet. It was like the old days of reform, after the war; before retreating from Britain. When Astoria caught on that he was not only grief-mad, but stone drunk, he slept for eighteen hours straight and then, upon waking up at midnight three days after his mother's death, crept downstairs and pulled the envelope from the back of the liquor cabinet.

Looking at it with clearer eyes showed it to be not so age worn as he had imagined it, but simply antiquely made. Pureblood, no doubt. Old Pureblood, from before the fall of the Dark Lord. Maybe from when Narcissa was a girl.

A thin, pale blue ribbon tied the envelope shut. He unknotted it gently, unsure of what to expect. But it certainly wasn't the multitude of parchment that cascaded out, slipping to the floor in a crumpled heap. Some pieces were age spotted, a few were ripped and torn, but without fail, he could see his mother's curly cursive winding across each in the familiar outline of a letter.

Picking one up, he read the date and first line:

_July 31, 1969_

_Dearest Andromeda, I would give anything to have you back. Even …_

But Draco didn't read any further. Dropping it like a hot brand, he picked up another letter. _Dearest Andromeda …_ Another one. _Dearest Andromeda._

They were all addressed to the aunt he had never known; Narcissa's sister, to whom she had never professed anything but bitterness towards, on the rare occasion when she would mention the name.

_Dearest Andromeda …_

It changed everything he'd thought about his aunt.

Even after the war, when everyone had supposedly become equal, he and his mother and father had withdrew from society. Gone to the continent for a while, associated with the wizardry of Germany, Russia, Scandinavia—the places where Dark Magic still festered unchecked. When Narcissa and Lucius returned quietly to Malfoy Manor and Draco married Astoria, the small family kept to themselves. Narcissa had certainly never sought out Andromeda, not to Draco's knowledge. And nor had he ever heard of Andromeda calling on Narcissa.

With a jolt, he realized he didn't even know if Andromeda was still alive. Her grandson Teddy was—he was married, thought Draco, surprised that he remembered that advertisement in the _Prophet_ telling of Theodore John Lupin marrying Victoire Elizabeth Weasley.

The stately old grandfather clock, a Malfoy heirloom, struck one in the adjacent room. Draco returned to the present and knelt, gathering the letters with just enough care to be certain that they all were labeled _Dearest Andromeda._

And so they were. From her sixteenth year to just before her death, Narcissa Malfoy had never stopped writing wistfully to her estranged, disgraced elder sister.

* * *

**This isn't so much a plotted story as an exploration of the relationships between the Black sisters and, less directly, Narcissa and Draco. The letters will continue to fuse past and present, and future chapters should continue to be about this length. Nothing too serious - or Sirius ;-D I'd love to hear any opinions!**


	2. July 30, 1969

_July 30, 1969_

_Dearest Meda_, writes Cissy, _You simply can't understand how dull it is with neither you nor Bella here._

She strikes the parchment from her lap, letting it settle on the floor for the house elf to pick up. _Dull_ doesn't begin to cover how very lonely she is. And _dull_ doesn't even hint that while the house is empty of her sisters, the worst blow is that Andromeda is blasted from the family tree, while Bellatrix retreats further into the Cause.

Bella, Meda, Cissy. Once they were an unbreakable trinity. Bella, Meda, Cissy. And yet how quickly they shattered. It was love letters, power, bigotry, and hate that caused Meda and Bella, once annoyingly close, to spend a summer in silent conflict, Narcissa the grumbling party caught between. And now Meda has fled to be with her Mudblood, and Cissy hasn't seen Bella since.

She would feel sorry for Bella if Bella hadn't acted so strangely for so long, at least the past year and a half she'd been openly engaged in the Dark Lord's service. It's like she's Lucius, who continually boasts, if not to Narcissa, about the gist of his activities as a Death Eater. And she would feel sorrier for Meda if she hadn't gone and married Ted Tonks. As if there aren't plenty of perfectly acceptable husbands for Andromeda in her own society, with purer blood and fairer face both. Narcissa sniffs affectedly, for if Meda was to follow a forbidden love, she at least could have chosen a romantic one.

_Dearest Andromeda,_ Cissy begins again, _Even though you would have moved away this year anyway, I wish it hadn't been so soon._

She can just hear her mother saying "Wishing, Narcissa, will get you nowhere. You have to mean it."

And so that parchment settles on the floor as well. Narcissa starts on a third piece, lucky three, just like her.

* * *

_Dearest Andromeda,_

_I would give anything to have you back. Even the beautiful comb Mother gave me yesterday, for my hair. Even that. It's not so much that I miss you, as that I need you and the balance your presence brought. It's just not the same here, in an even more miserable way than when Bella moved in with Rodulphus. Because at least then I had you to commiserate with, and you were a lot more unhappy than I was. Now I can't talk to Bella, because she'd hex me. And Father and Mother might just disown me too if they found out how much I wish you hadn't run off with that Ted Tonks. _

_A Mudblood. That's all I can think about; you gave up Bella and I for a Mudblood. They're not even barely human, are they? Well, I guess they look about human, but they're certainly not at the pinnacle our society has attained. How could you leave that all behind like it didn't even matter? Like your sisters don't even matter, like we never did?_

_I don't even know what 'we' means anymore, Meda. I don't know anything anymore. I saw Sirius a couple nights ago, you know. He and Regulus came over with Aunt Walburga to discuss you, and we went down to the woods because Sirius didn't want to be in the house anymore. He's not thirteen, but he seems so old. Not because he's mature, Merlin knows, but because he's so angry, so bitter, all the time. Everyone knew Sirius would be the seventh one blasted from our family tree, except that you came along first. Maybe it'll drive him back to us. But that doesn't even matter, because what are cousins without sisters?_

_Well, there's no way to end this letter. I don't wish you well. I don't hope you're happy. I hope you're miserable, because I'm offering to sacrifice the most elaborate, expensive hairpiece I've ever had, a Rosier heirloom, to get you back. And I know it won't matter, because you'll still love Ted more._

_Cissy_

* * *

Draco sat, holding only the very edges of the letter, and contemplated for a long time. In that page of looping writing, he had gotten more of an idea of his mother and aunts' childhood than in years of living with them. Suddenly 'Andromeda' wasn't the mythical traitor that had taken root in his boyish imagination and, just as he grew into a man, grown into a woman who turned her back on everything the house of Black stood for. Andromeda was just someone whom his mother had loved, very, very much. Who had probably loved his mother back, until she loved Ted Tonks more.

He wondered if Narcissa had ever sent the letter, or simply saved it for a reunion that never came. If she'd sent it, it must have been returned, or this bundle wouldn't have become his inheritance. Was his mother's aim to simply educate him on his past, her family? Or did she want more from him? Was he her last chance to make her sister see reason?

He dropped his head to his hands, suddenly weary. What did any of this matter now? The feud was years past, the house of Black long extinct in name. If Andromeda was even alive, she was an old woman by now.

And yet, she was someone his mother cared deeply about. Loved once; seemed to have never stopped. Narcissa's last words flashed through Draco's mind. She said to tell sisters goodbye—which sisters, she hadn't specified.

No, he thought suddenly, she hadn't told him to say goodbye. She told him to say that she was sorry that he hadn't been able to. And it wasn't her great granddaughters she was talking about; it had to have been Bellatrix and Andromeda. There was nothing he could do about Bellatrix now, for she was long dead, although not in spirit—just remembering his aunt made Draco tremble a little, for he had never been able to forget the days of torture and terror as she tried to mold him into the fighter she wanted him to be.

But Andromeda, that was something he could help. Draco gave a little gulp, trying to cough back tears for his mother. Crying wasn't something he did anymore. It had been embarrassing, in his teenage years, how frequently he'd felt the familiar prickle of tears in his eyelids—yet another weakness Bellatrix had forced him to suppress.

But his mother was dead. _His mother was dead_. In the inheritance he now held was her last wish. And whatever it was, whether it was for Draco to understand or for him to make Andromeda understand, he vowed to fulfill it.

So he clenched his teeth against loss and folded up the letters for later. Today, he'd go into the Ministry. Pull some strings; find out about Andromeda. Be proactive in gaining something for his mother that she had never been able to do for herself, because otherwise, he would have to admit that she was gone.

Draco just couldn't do that yet.

* * *

**Again, I would love to hear any opinions - characterizations, format, letters, whatevsies. I have the next chapter (which is nothing like this one) written, so it should be up in the next few days. Happy Friday!**


	3. Mirrors

After Narcissa's funeral, once she was laid to rest beside Lucius in the Malfoy family plot (Draco tried to let his eyes slide past the space he already knew was reserved for him), the family and select close friends adjourned to the Manor for a night of remembrance. His wife Astoria played hostess happily; she was never more in her element than when playing to a crowd. It was why she had always gotten on well with her mother in law.

Draco, meanwhile, brooded in solitude on the edge of the crowd. Everyone else was content to leave him alone; they accepted that, as Narcissa's son, he had more right to grieve than the rest of them. So for nearly an hour, he sat in silence with a decanter of mead in his hand, barely touched.

"Grandaddy," piped up a voice to his right all of a sudden. He set his glass onto the arm of his chair in surprise, and turned to see Calypso, the eldest of his granddaughters, approaching him. Her fine party dress was crooked, twisted around her small torso. Unconsciously, Draco wrinkled his nose. The wizarding trend towards Muggle clothing, especially for witches, was most unbecoming. He would have to have a word with Scorpius about that.

But the child, whom he often liked, was not to be blamed for her mother's shortcomings in getting her suitable apparel. So Draco gave his best smile, and she climbed right onto his lap like she belonged there and immediately began to play with the clasp of his dress robes.

"Gramma Cissa wouldn't like that," was the first thing Calypso said, pointing to the glass of alcohol with a sniff. She tossed her dark curls over her shoulder and pointed her nose in the air.

Draco forced out a laugh and tossed back the rest of the glass. "So we just won't tell her, then," he said to his granddaughter. She smirked, and Draco realized, not for the first time, that now that she was six, she was far more impressionable and actually remembered things like this.

Callidora came over then, of course. She was always trailing after her elder sister. Somehow, her dress was pristine where Calypso's was crumpled, and she climbed onto Draco's lap gracefully, perching on the edge of his left knee.

When they were apart, they were Calypso and Callidora to Draco. Pureblood names, just as was proper for Malfoys, for descendants of Blacks. But together, Calypso became Cally and Callidora, Dora.

Alone, Draco could deal with them. He'd been known to enjoy their company, even conduct conversations with these tiny girls. But together, they were a mystery to him. Perhaps it was because he'd never had a sibling, or even a close friend of his own age while he was growing up. Seeing the bond the sisters shared, even during their all too frequent squabbles, made him feel that he was missing out on something.

"What's that?" Dora asked, pointing to the now empty glass beside Draco. He almost laughed, simply bemused at the girls' ability to see the same thing in such different ways.

"My drink," he replied simply, pushing it out of her reach.

"Grandda'!" cried Cally indignantly, "That was our secret!"

"Just from Gramma Cissa," he said softly, bouncing the knee that Cally sat on. There was something in the intensity of the child that made him nervous. Like his son might be raising another little Bellatrix. It was why Draco went out of his way to try to give Calypso alternatives to fanaticism and tradition. Why he wasn't publicly humiliating her mother for the unsuitable dresses she'd adorned her daughters with. Why he tried to set an example for her that was free of violence, hate, bigotry. No more than any grandfather should do for any grandchild, but with Calypso, it seemed especially important.

"Why from Gramma Cissa _now_?" asked innocent Dora.

"Because." Cally pinched her sister, daring her to say more.

"Cally …" Draco frowned at the girl.

"Sorry, Dora," she muttered, glaring at the floor.

"'S okay," lisped Dora, sliding down from Draco's knee. Cally followed her, and the two tiny girls wove through adult legs to plop down beside their mother and littlest sister. Draco continued to watch until he was content in their docileness; at least in Callidora's.

He reflected that Calypso, who made him so anxious, really was not a mirror of Bellatrix. She was prissier than he could ever imagine his aunt being, and lacked the fierce possessiveness that had labeled everything Bellatrix touched undeniably _hers_. And, brought up in a society where equality was everything, she would certainly not be given the opportunities of darkness that Bellatrix had clearly been offered in her youth.

Perhaps he should stop worrying. Clearly, Scorpius and Dahlia hadn't failed in their parenting yet.

So he allowed his mind to wander across the rest of the gathering. It dismayed Draco to realize how few people he knew here. Most were friends of Scorpius'; a few of Dahlia's. One or two he recognized as Notts or Rosiers. And barely any had significant ties to his mother.

But really, the only person left alive with as much claim to her as Draco, was Andromeda. He had tracked her down two days ago, calling in a favor from Blaise Zabini in the legal department. Found out that she lived on the outskirts of London now, on a small, sparsely populated Muggle road. All the way at the end, Zabini showed him in a picture conjured by his wand, a cottage with a smoggy stream running behind it.

Teddy, Zabini had continued, lived with his wife and five children in a spacious, refurbished house by the sea. Cornwall was the name, although as city that was chiefly non wizarding, the name inspired little recognition in Draco.

Teddy didn't matter overmuch to Draco, however. As far as he was concerned, his devotion to his mother would bind him to seeking out Andromeda and delivering the letters, after finishing reading them himself—they were, after all, _his_ inheritance. No more than that. And after Andromeda was rectified and had forgiven Narcissa, Draco would retire himself to the Manor, perhaps devote time to recovering heirlooms that had been sold or plundered when he and his parents had retreated to the Continent immediately after the war. Sometimes he would call on his granddaughters and spend time shaping Calypso into a girl worthy of both her past and the wizarding world's future.

The time slipped by, and then he felt Astoria's soft touch on his shoulder. "Draco," she said gently, "Will you send the guests out with me?"

He rose woodenly and followed in his wife's wake to the door. For a few minutes he moved through guests he barely even knew, murmuring mechanical, sincere thanks. (How proud Narcissa would have been.) At last, only Astoria, Scorpius, and Dahlia, holding a sleepy Halycon, remained. The adults could hear Calypso and Callidora carrying on in the courtyard near them; every so often, one of the girls would run past the window.

For the first time, Draco could see strain and sorrow written across his Astoria's face. Of course, she'd always liked Narcissa, and been well liked back. Certainly better liked by the Malfoy matriarch than was Dahlia, the half blood wife of Scorpius. Dahlia had been raised in both robes and blue jeans, and couldn't understand why things weren't the same in the Malfoy family. For Narcissa's part, she couldn't even hear the words 'blue jeans' without leveling a glare at Dahlia and, without pause, segueing seamlessly into feeling faint; taking to bed for a day or two.

No, Narcissa had not gotten on with Scorpius' wife. So Draco gently took Astoria's hand in his own, squeezed, and asked Scorpius, "Do you want to gather your girls back? Or will they listen better to Grandaddy?"

"They won't to anyone," said Scorpius with a rueful, almost guilty, smile. "I've got them." He brushed by Astoria and slipped into the courtyard. Inside, Dahlia shifted uncomfortably; repositioned her youngest daughter in her arms.

"It was a very nice service," she finally said stiffly, just as Scorpius came back inside, holding Dora on his hip and firmly hand in hand with Cally. Just as he had continuously since Dahlia's first pregnancy, Draco marveled at seeing his son with children of his own. At watching Scorpius, at the fact that he wasn't such a bad parent. That he and Astoria must have done something right, or Scorpius would be able to do nothing right.

"Goodbye, son," said Draco now, stiff as he clapped his son on the shoulder, stroked Halcyon and Callidora's cheeks, tousled Calypso's curls into more snarls than they were already.

"Goodbye," echoed Astoria. "Thank you." And she gave Scorpius a hug, then kissed Dahlia's cheek.

It was a relief when Scorpius and his family had gone, and Astoria turned to Draco, hurt finally making an appearance in her gentle green eyes.

"That was harder than I'd though, there," she said, tears brimming over. Draco opened his arms to his wife. Holding himself together was easier when someone else was falling apart.

* * *

**And for the next chapter, we'll spend a while back in time. I'd love to hear any opinions on Draco, Astoria, and any other member of his family/portion of this fic. Thank you for reading!**


	4. August 16, 1969

Midway through August, Cissy comes downstairs unobserved in the morning just in time to see her father's face contract into a brewing storm of fury that not even his dark beard can mask as he slams the _Prophet_ down and turns to her mother. He says, in the tense voice that's always terrified Narcissa, "We will cancel our subscription to this drivel. If the _Prophet _cannot filter what they publish, they certainly do not need our backing."

Druella pales and pats her mouth with a napkin. Although from her vantage point near the top of the stairs, peeking down through the dining room door, Narcissa can't see her mother's expression, she knows that it will be genteelly composed as always, but her mouth will have thinned into a bloodless line, her lips pressed tight to teeth.

"Yes, Cygnus," Druella says, replacing her napkin delicately in her lap. "I will Owl the _Prophet_ at once."

And she rises from her seat and, under pretense of entering the kitchen (Narcissa knows it's a pretense because her mother _never_ enters the kitchen), peers over Cygnus' shoulder at the offending article. Like Cygnus, Druella's face reforms itself into anger, perhaps betrayal.

Quickly, Narcissa runs through the list of possibilities for what could have been in the paper. Something about Andromeda is the only one that seems realistic—it's the only one that makes her heart contract with still raw betrayal, and Andromeda is surely the only person who could evoke such emotion in their parents.

Again, her heart contracts. What if Meda is hurt, sick, dead? Perhaps Cygnus was reading the obituaries, or perhaps Meda had been injured disgracefully while doing battle for the wrong side of the war.

But Narcissa instantly feels that these possibilities are wrong. Cygnus wouldn't have been upset over an obituary for a daughter already dead to him, and Meda would never openly fight for the other side. No, it has to be worse.

Perhaps she has married the Mudblood.

Cold fear washes over Narcissa, and she sways on the banister, even more stricken than when she imagined Andromeda dead. What else could it be but a notice telling of a wedding, perhaps past, perhaps upcoming?

Just to be certain, when Druella orders the house elf to toss the paper out and make sure it never enters the house again, Narcissa catches up to the elf.

"Give it here," she demands, still in her nightgown, hair unbrushed.

The creature fidgets and says, "But Mistress said for Binky to throw the paper out, and Binky doesn't like disobeying Mistress anymore."

"Too bad." Narcissa isn't about to take orders from a lesser animal like this. "What family do you serve?"

"Binky serves the house of Black." The little elf bows so that its nose touches the ground.

"And which family does my mother come from?"

"Mistress was a Rosier, Miss Narcissa."

"And am I not more Black than my mother?"

"Binky supposes you is, Miss Narcissa. But Binky …"

"Binky will give that newspaper to me right now, or I swear I will tear this robe from my body and force it onto yours!" cries Narcissa, brandishing a furious finger in its face.

The elf shoots her a glare that is half murderous, half respecting, and creeps towards her to hand the newspaper over. Narcissa dismisses it, and then, with a furtive glance to be sure neither Cygnus nor Druella is around, frantically tears through the _Prophet_ to the social news page.

Sure enough, the bottom announces the marriage of Ted Tonks to Andromeda Black. An inscription accompanies it, stating each's heritage, their schooling. Narcissa notices that while Ted's family and siblings are mentioned by name, Andromeda's family merely consists of being "formerly of the house of Black." And beside the betraying article is a picture, not more than two inches tall, of Meda, Cissy's Meda, reclining in Ted Tonk's arms, the widest smile Cissy has seen her wearing on her face. Not even when she was with Bella did Meda smile like that.

She holds the paper in her two hands for a moment, staring in relative disbelief at the photo. Although she knew this was inevitable, Narcissa realizes now how unprepared she is for the reality of her sister marrying this unworthy man.

"Meda …" she moans. "Why, Meda?"

When her sister doesn't answer, she slowly rips the page in two. Right between Ted's goofy grin and Meda's brimming joy. The section with Ted on it, she tears into tiny pieces, but the section with Meda, she pockets. As soon as this is accomplished, Narcissa snaps her fingers for Binky.

"Clean that up," she tells the elf, pointing to the shreds of paper that used to be Ted Tonks, and spins on her heel and goes to her room to dress.

Once Narcissa is wearing day robes and her hair is brushed, she feels enough herself to open a drawer of her writing desk and pull out the set of peacock feather embellished parchment Meda gave her for her last birthday. At the top sits the letters she's written already to her sister. Narcissa burrows beneath those to come up with a clean piece of paper and vows to write a letter that she can send, this time.

_Andromeda,_

_I saw you're marrying Ted Tonks. Father went purple with rage, and Mother got that thin lipped look you and Bella always tried to imitate. Well, without you two to snicker at it, it was positively horrifying! We're no longer subscribers to the _Prophet_, so whatever you do in the future, it will go unnoticed. Just so you know._

_Well, I can't say I approve of this marriage. What can Tonks give you? I don't even believe he can give you the love you need, because what does he understand about you and your past? Mother always said that it's your past that defines you, so what's a Mudblood like him doing in your present and future?_

_Please, Meda, don't marry him. I'm begging you. Come back home. I'll make Mother and Father forgive you, and Bella … well, once she realizes that you know you made a mistake, she'll come around. Please, Meda. I have never meant something this much in my life. I love you. I need you. Come back. _

_Your Cissy_

She doesn't bother to reread the letter, just blots it dry and ties it into a scroll. Gives it to Binky; watches the elf toddle from the room to the Owlry.

"And don't show it to Father or Mother!" she calls harshly after it.

For the next several minutes, Narcissa lies on her bed and tries to think of anything but the letter she just wrote. It's everything she doesn't want to be to Andromeda: Shallow, newsy, and above all, needy. Narcissa and Andromeda both loathe needy people; it's one of the few things they have in common.

Finally, when its almost more than she can bear to _not_ go back to Binky and tell it to call back the letter, she returns to her writing desk; pulls out a fresh piece of parchment.

* * *

_August 16, 1969_

_Dearest Andromeda,_

_This is what I should have said. _

_You don't belong with Ted Tonks. Not because I don't believe you love him; at least, I believe that you believe that you love him, because I know you don't do anything without conviction. No, you don't belong with him because you're a Black, Meda. No matter how many times you renounce us, you are a Black. And Blacks don't marry Mudbloods. That's why you don't belong with Ted, Andromeda. Because if you belong with him, you don't belong with us._

_So if by some miracle you get this letter at some point in your life, do you remember when we were young and Father and Aunt Walburga took us into the room with the family tapestry? And Bellatrix ran her finger over her name, and showed both of us ours, because you couldn't really read, and I was just a baby? Well, I only know this story from you and Bella, but do you remember how proud Father looked when he said to Aunt Walburga "Even if my girls cannot carry on the name, they will surely carry on the values of the House of Black. See how they respect the family even now." And Aunt Walburga even looked pleased with Bellatrix, for probably the only time ever. _

_Well, you're not carrying the values of the House of Black right now, Meda. Maybe we could compromise. I know that, for reasons unknown to me, you used to like Reg Cattermole. Even though he's only half blood, and new money at that, what if you married him instead? I just think it's awfully selfish of you to throw your entire family away for one man. If Lucius was Muggleborn, I wouldn't even look at him._

_Oh Meda, I know you think I don't understand love. But I do! I can! If they're one thing Mother has taught me, it's that no one is irreplaceable but family. So come back, Meda, because no one can replace you._

_I love you,_

_Cissy_

* * *

_Come back, Meda, because no one can replace you._

The words haunted Draco for hours after reading the letter. He felt half like he was prying into something that was very personal of his mother's, like when he was young and would go into his parents' room to play with their wands. But the other half of him was simply awed by the glimpses of a Narcissa he never knew that he had been shown in the past week by the letters he'd read.

For the first time, it occured to him that maybe he should just track down Andromeda now; give her the letters and let her do what she would with them. It would be kinder to his memory of his mother if he remembered her as indomitable, steely, protective. Better to have that image, glowing gold in death, than to only know her younger, unsure side after she can no longer defend herself.

Yearning for an answer, whenever he could, he crept into his study to run a hand across the antiquidated envelope, feel the decades of loss beneath his fingertips. It's almost a possibility. _See all these secrets I've kept_? whispered the envelope. _They're still your inheritance._


	5. Forsaken

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**It's been a while. I'm so sorry for going MIA for so long; real life is annoyingly present. In case you guys need a refresher, in the last chapter, Narcissa wrote and sent a letter (which, coincidentally, begins the chapter) to the recently estranged Andromeda before writing another that she wished she'd sent instead, but ended up going into the envelope for Draco to read. Reviews would be wonderfully motivating! Enjoy :)**

* * *

_Andromeda,_

_I saw you're marrying Ted Tonks. Father went purple with rage, and Mother got that thin lipped look you and Bella always tried to imitate. Well, without you two to snicker at it, it was positively horrifying! We're no longer subscribers to the _Prophet_, so whatever you do in the future, it will go unnoticed. Just so you know._

_Well, I can't say I approve of this marriage. What can Tonks give you? I don't even believe he can give you the love you need, because what does he understand about you and your past? Mother always said that it's your past that defines you, so what's a Mudblood like him doing in your present and future?_

_Please, Meda, don't marry him. I'm begging you. Come back home. I'll make Mother and Father forgive you, and Bella … well, once she realizes that you know you made a mistake, she'll come around. Please, Meda. I have never meant something this much in my life. I love you. I need you. Come back. _

_Your Cissy_

* * *

Andromeda wishes that she'd sent the owl away as soon as she recognized the distinctive crest seared into its leg. Anything would have been preferable to the agony of seeing her sister's emotions, raw and volatile, spilled across the very peacock feather embellished parchment that was Andromeda's gift to Cissy last Christmas.

She didn't want to lose her sisters. It's been bearable, because she loves Ted and because she tells herself that in removing one from the Black family triad, she has made Bellatrix and Narcissa's inheritances all the richer. But leaving Bella and Cissy was almost harder than _not_ leaving them.

Head in her hands, Andromeda runs a finger over the perfect cursive that betrays its writer's mental state only in occasional ink blots over Cissy's I's and commas. Ted will be back from his father's house any minute, and if he sees the Black owl in their kitchen, he'll be hurt, finally understanding that no matter how far she runs, how much she loves and is loved, Andromeda will never be able to escape her former family. She doesn't want to hurt him yet.

So with a moan of bitter resolve, she pulls out a battered Hogwarts quill and Accios the old parchment set from the bottom of her trunk—truthfully, she mostly uses a Muggle pen and notebook now. But to send an answer on paper, in pen, would be the ultimate disgrace for Narcissa. Andromeda isn't willing to hurt her that much.

It's the whole problem, she thinks regretfully. She doesn't want to hurt Ted, but wishes she hadn't had to hurt her family either. Even since choosing Ted, she's been plagued with doubts that somehow she could have resigned the Blacks to a Muggleborn husband for their middle child; that even as a quirky, ill fitted aunt, she would still be allowed to be present with the family at holidays. Still have a relationship with them. Of course, in running, she has lost any chance of that.

So with steely resolve, she scrawls unfeeling words in reply to her sister's last stand.

* * *

_Cissy,_

_I am in love with Ted. If you knew love, you would understand that I could never leave you for anything less than that. I couldn't live in a world where his kind was hated, so I left it. I would tell you I'm sorry, but I can't be sorry. This was my choice. Let me have that comfort._

_Meda_

* * *

Bile rises in Narcissa's throat as she reads her sister's letter. She can't even cry, that's how hurt she is. Andromeda leaving and renouncing the family was one pain, but here in her hands lies another, far more personal, for now Andromeda is renouncing Cissy alone.

She begins to rip the letter in two, but pauses halfway down the parchment. There will be no more correspondence with Meda. Her disgrace is too great; she doesn't repent; she doesn't care. Cissy swallows hard and affixes a piece of Spellotape across the tear. These are her sister's last words to her, _I can't be sorry. _This is the way love corrodes, beginning in forbidden trysts and ending in betrayal and mistrust. This is Narcissa's sixteenth year, and this is her bitter inheritance.

Retrieving the photograph of Andromeda that she ripped from the _Prophet_ yesterday, Narcissa folds the two mementos together and tucks them deep into the envelope where she's begun to store the letters to Andromeda, far in the bottom where not even she can see them. Perhaps she'll be able to forget their existence, but then, that won't happen until she wants to.

Suddenly, Narcissa is lonely. The house is too empty, too quiet, too unloved with both of her sisters gone.

"Bella," she whispers, voice cracking. Then, more assuredly, "Bella." Now with purpose, she runs a comb through her hair and goes to her father's library; sneaks a handful of Floo powder. It might be a safer choice to send Bellatrix advance warning, but Narcissa doesn't want to give her the opportunity to get away.

"Lestrange Castle," she says into the fireplace, stepping into the warm flames and trying to keep her robes straight as she focuses on the destination.

She steps out in the library, a gloomy and cold room that's musty with disuse. As soon as the emerald flames of Floo powder die, the grate becomes bare again, strewn with long burnt out ashes. Footsteps echoing on the stone, Narcissa leaves the library and enters the portion of the castle that her sister and husband live in, differentiated only by the Lestrange house elves' meticulous cleaning.

"Bella?" she asks, voice steadier now. Just being near one of her sisters makes her stronger. Louder, again she calls, "Bellatrix?"

"Cissy?" Wearing partially buttoned robes, Bellatrix comes towards her, eyebrows raised.

"I'm just stopping by," Narcissa tells her quietly, "But if this is a bad time …" She looks pointedly at the crooked robes. A lazy smile wraps around Bella's lips.

"Don't worry, Rodulphus isn't here. I just didn't feel like dressing, until someone showed up unannounced to—" Bellatrix looks searchingly at Narcissa. "Why _are _you here?"

When Narcissa returns Bellatrix's gaze, she realizes that to tell Bellatrix about Andromeda's letter would be much a mistake as was sending the letter in the first place.

"No, what is it?" Bellatrix presses, softer this time, as Narcissa's silence continues. Narcissa fights for something to ask her sister, something that won't hurt Bellatrix more than Andromeda already has, something that Narcissa can take as a ward against Meda's cruel last words. _I can't be sorry._ How dare she?

"Do you think I understand love?" Cissy finally gulps.

Bellatrix blinks at her, and, eyes suddenly going cold and steely, snaps, "What did Lucius say?"

"What do you mean?" asks a puzzled Narcissa.

"If he hurt you …"

"No," Narcissa says quickly, "No, this has nothing to do with Lucius."

"Well then," laughs Bella, "With matters of philosophy like this, you're better off talking to And—" She gasps. "I mean, _another_ person."

Cissy feels sick to her stomach. "There is no other person, Bella."

And her sister shrinks before her eyes, looking, instead of mussed or defiant or whatever else her apparel had made her, merely vulnerable. It's a look unsuited to Bellatrix Lestrange, and even more unsuited to the Bella Black that Narcissa remembers.

"I don't think I can tell you if you understand love or not," Bellatrix says finally. "Not when I know I don't."

Narcissa swallows hard, knowing she's about to cry. "But you know everything," she wants to protest. Her words still in her throat, though, as she watches Bellatrix press her forehead to the wall, fingers curling on the mortar, terribly mortal. If Bellatrix doesn't understand something, she pretends she does until even the people who already understand it decide they're wrong, that Bellatrix's explanation is right. But now, for love, Bellatrix has no fabricated, glossy, unbelievable stories.

Although half certain that Bella will only shrug her off, Narcissa haltingly moves in to hug her. She wraps her arms around Bellatrix's waist; Bellatrix moves from the wall to lean against her sister.

A tear trickles down Narcissa's nose, falling unnoticed against Bella's disheveled robes. "_I_ love _you_," Cissy says softly, because it's something she does understand.

Bella's arms snake around her, holding her tight to her, comforting Narcissa now instead of the other way around. Breathing in a sigh of relief, Narcissa finally relaxes. "And _I _love _you_," Bellatrix replies fiercely.

And this, Narcissa realizes as she stares hazily around through the curtain of her sister's hair and her own welling tears, is the real inheritance that Andromeda has forsaken to her.


	6. Illicit

**This is a short chapter, but it needed to be said. As this goes more in depth about the post-war wizarding world, I'd especially love to hear thoughts about that.**

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Draco used his connections to locate his estranged aunt. Years of Ministry prostrations added to his father's years of philanthropy have given him enduring influence among the higher-ups, even now, long after his family's disgrace. He put an intern at the annual census office on the job, shuffling paperwork to be sure that when the intern went door to door, he ended up at Andromeda Tonks' cottage.

"Batty old lady," was the first thing the intern said, once they were shut up in Draco's complimentary study in the far chambers of the Ministry of Magic. "Surrounded by pictures, she was. Invited me in and showed them off to me, her daughter and husband and grandkid and great grandchildren, they were."

"Ah." Draco nodded, templing his hands together as he pressed the intern for more information. "What do you mean, exactly, by batty?" He hoped Andromeda's madness hadn't followed her elder sisters'.

"She just …" The intern cast his eyes around the room. Draco was struck by how young this person was, cheeks barely touched by stubble, probably not more than three years out of Hogwarts. He should have gone for the less discreet route and put one of the magical investigators on it. "She didn't seem to have the foggiest idea of the present. She would one minute be talking about her little daughter, how she was down for a nap and would have to be fed soon, and then after she pointed out a picture of her little daughter she'd turn around and say Sorry; I meant … Teddy, I think it was. Yes, that's the names she said. Anyway, she said he'll be waking up soon, so you'd better be going." The intern frowns. "But she meant Teddy Lupin, and I knew him at Hogwarts, five years ahead of me, he was, and her grandkid, but now he's up and married with kids of his own."

"Yes," said Draco, digesting. "Did she ever mention … her family before them?"

"What do you mean?" asked the intern. "You mean, her husband? Sure, a few times she'd talk about him, sometimes like he was alive and sometimes like he was dead … but he's dead, ain't he? Killed in that war a couple decades back?"

Draco stiffened. _That war a couple decades back. _As if it was just a little blip in wizarding history, as if it changed a few lives, when in reality, it scarred and mangled so many lives, so many _ways _of life beyond recognizing. "He was, I believe," Draco finally managed. "But what of her sisters? Bellatrix and … Narcissa. Her parents. Her cousins."

He was taking a bit of a risk in mentioning these people who were also tied to him, when he'd already given the intern a first name (last names, too personal, not discreet enough, had no business in this dealing). But anyone who could pass the Great War off as _that war a couple decades back_ couldn't possibly have the intelligence to connect Draco to Narcissa, to Andromeda.

"I don't reckon …" The intern smacked his lips against themselves, a vulgar expression of deep thought. As own Draco's lip curled, his mother flashed through his mind, prim as she echoed his vague disgust. "Maybe. Sirius?"

"Sirius. Yes." The other fallen Black star. "What about him?"

"That he'd gone and got himself locked up, that he was just like the rest of them, that he wasn't … That she needed him, that he was the only one she could still love … That …" The intern blew out a frustrated breath. "That's all I can remember. You gonna pay up?"

Draco snorted. "You barely deserve it." He pulled a small sack of Galleons from his robes and laid it on the desk, keeping one hand warningly across it. "I'd like her address, please."

"Keep the whole bloody paper," the intern said, pulling a creased list from his pocket. "Alphabetical order by last name." He made to reach for the gold, but Draco pulled it out of reach, hoarding it until he read his aunt's name near the bottom of the intern's census list: _Andromeda Tonks—Alcester, Britain—Garden Cottage._

"Here." Draco tossed the gold at the intern. "Now forget this ever happened."

The intern barely nodded as he scooted from the room, leaving Draco to lean back in his chair and close his eyes, thoroughly repulsed by this whole dealing. The Ministry's corruption in the time of his father and the war, though overhauled, was not extinguished. Still, people lurked through its halls looking for easy money, blood money, intrigue, conspiracy theories, and, though he made himself scarce at the Ministry these days, as his father's son who bore no particular loyalty to the Minister of Magic, Draco found himself privy in one way or another to most black dealings.

Though for the most part he managed to keep his hands clean of any actual involvement, in these days of uptight reform, Draco could be convicted of any minor misdemeanor, charges no less serious than the ones that got his father sent to Azkaban after the war—Lucius, after all, was no fool. He evaded each accusation of involvement with Voldemort. But, though he couldn't be convicted guilty of serving the Dark Lord, years later, after other evidence accumulated against him, they got him for that. Desperate, broken families don't forget.

But Draco, out of the public eye for years, knew that he had little to worry about as long as he limited illicit activities to gleaning information of estranged aunts. And here, he held a promising address. He was nearly half done reading his mother's letters now. Each _Dearest Meda_, each childish plea of forgiveness, especially each heartfelt expression of continued love, settled him firmer in the conviction that Andromeda needed these at last. Maybe it was years of slippery, selfish dealings finally catching up to him, but for once, Draco was willing to give up something of his own for someone he barely knew, didn't really want to know, because it was the right thing and especially because it was what someone else—his mother, the bravest woman he knew—would want from him.

He got up from his desk and tucked the census sheet deep into his robes, then strode through the Ministry, a figure of imposing power whom the oldest officials watched with trepidation and murmured, "That's Lucius Malfoy all over again."

But the address buried in his robes, the new approaching selflessness, proved that, half a century belated, Draco Malfoy was finally his own man.


End file.
